1:05:05 I rose from the high-chair with the paper from grandmother's orange grove in my hand. My bride! (Just look at her, at her fingers which have engulfed so many men, and guided them in between her lips.) She matches all my senses, I declared in front of the overheated wedding guests during the dinner reception. Some of them glanced back at me in obvious discomfort, even pain, and again I was struck by this acute tenderness that makes the hair on my hands rise. I can't give my trembling breath a slap, of course, but I can accept the warning. It must be your scents, I concluded, and left the stranger to your care. Some of your smells I know, others I have only a vague feeling, surfacing a potential turmoil of their hypnotic powers.Alle rechten voorbehouden